


I Hate You

by Starculler



Series: Lost To The Fade [2]
Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gender-Neutral Inquisitor, Listed characters have (minor) speaking roles but focus is on Fenris, M/M, Mage Hawke (Dragon Age), Post-Here Lies the Abyss, Rated T for occasional strong language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-25 21:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14985602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starculler/pseuds/Starculler
Summary: They will pay for their crimes. Of that, Fenris is sure.





	I Hate You

**Author's Note:**

> This fic finally got a second part!  
> I hope you enjoy it and, if you want, let me know what you think

Skyhold is a grand and expansive thing: pretty, if Fenris would give himself just a moment to admire the verdure and crawling vines along the fortress’ stone ramparts and towers. He thinks, however, only of the advantage the night’s low visibility affords him. The lanterns and torches cast a dim, flickering light across the lower and upper courtyards to which Skyhold’s residents stay close while he sneaks about in cold shadow. He stalks past exhausted soldiers and night-owl civilians to the stone steps that lead up to the main hall. 

He pauses there, flush against the wall of the stair’s archway as a pair of recruits descend the steps overhead. He catches faint snatches of their whispered conversation, but dismisses it as useless. He does, however, find his focus drawn to the words Inquisitor and Impressive. Bile rises in his throat to splash against his tongue, bitter as the anger flaring in his chest. The lyrium in his skin sings in time with his anger, searing his flesh and, he knows, glowing under the fur and fabric he wears specifically to block out the light.

\-- -- -- -- -- 

_“Does it hurt?” Hakwe asked. The crease between his brows deepened in concern as he pulled his hand away from Fenris’ arm._

_“Not particularly. Not anymore.” Fenris reaches out to grab at the palm of Hawke’s hand, big and calloused and bandaged from a recent burn. A rage demon’s fire. “But this must.” He traced his fingers along the translucent skin of Hawke’s wrist, careful to avoid the burns._

_Hawke smiled, soft and insufferable and painfully beautiful. “Did you know,” he began, drawing closer to Fenris. The latter shifted, flushing as his gaze was pulled to Hawke’s own. “Did you know,” Hawke repeated, whispering conspiratorially, “you glow as much when you’re flustered as you do when you’re angry?”_

_“Must make it terribly easy to find everything in bed,” Fenris deadpanned. There was a moment of almost-awkward silence before Hawke guffawed, curling forward to lay his forehead on Fenris’ shoulder as his whole body shook with laughter._

\-- -- -- -- -- 

Fenris touches the red cloth tied to his wrist as he breathes, three rounds of carefully and purposefully inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth, until he feels grounded once more in the present. He feels a familiar bone-deep exhaustion tug at his limbs, urging him to lie down. To drift away once more into his grief until reality ceases and all he knows is the throbbing, empty ache that Hawke has left behind in him. Instead of giving in, he scrubs at his eyes with the palms of his hands, pushing the heel in hard for extra measure. He drags his hand up into his hair, drags his bangs back and away from his face, and sets his jaw. 

Not today. Not anymore.

When he’s sure no one is watching, he steals out from his hiding spot, risking a moment in the nearby torch-light before stealing up the stone steps with a silence any rogue would envy. The double-door entrance is open and unguarded, with only a few Orlesian types and drunken soldiers loitering around empty tables. He hangs there a moment, one foot crossing the threshold and he must take a moment to center himself.

His body burns with the urge to wreak havoc. To reach for his broadsword and swing it carelessly at the Inquisition’s forces, to tear Skyhold apart brick by brick in unholy retribution for the Inquisitor’s crime. He wants the Inquisitor at his feet, kneeling and pleading for their worthless life — begging forgiveness for stealing away his Love and leaving him to rot in the Fade before Fenris brings his sword down on their neck. He would wring Varric’s neck and cut down Cullen, the Seeker, and any who dared get in his path.

\-- -- -- -- -- 

_“Then who’d fix the bloody hole in the sky?” Isabella, tankard in hand, was the voice of reason that night. She chewed on her lower lip a moment, then sighed heavily. “I hate the bastard, believe me. I’d love nothing more than to get them on the wrong side of my daggers, and,” she paused. Inhaled once through her nose. “Merril and Anders, or Justice or whatever and whoever the fuck he is now too — much as we might’ve squabbled with him, or gone our separate ways, I’d bet my new ship they’re dying to get their hands on this Inquisitor._

_“Aveline too actually, though she’d be too proper to admit it.” The campfire’s light flickered, its low, crackling roar filling up the silence that fell between them. “Fuck it,” she muttered and took a swig. “Soon as that fucking green hole’s cleared up you can bet your ass this Inquisitor’s getting one nasty visit.”_

\-- -- -- -- --

Fenris’ hands curl into shaking fists at his sides and he curses, pulling back to hide until his composure returns. He shoves his back against the stone, breath quick and shallow. His broadsword scrapes audibly against the wall and he screws his eyes shut against a pounding headache. He can’t do it. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t. 

Tears well up in Fenris’ eyes and he gasps, hand clutching his chest and prying as his clothes — pieces of cloth and armor stitched and welded onto his own, one last way to be close to Hawke — constrict and suffocate him. He gasps, wet and shaky as his composure crumbles and the reality sinks in.

He’s here. He’s here. He’s here and he can’t do anything without jeopardizing Thedas’ safety. He slides down to the ground, knees to his chest and hands fisted, pulling painfully at his hair as he bites back a sob. Pain crawls up Fenris’ twisting stomach, past his chest, and up into his throat where it lodges itself like a wine bottle’s cork, building up explosive pressure until it all but consumes him. 

They warned him and he didn’t listen.

\-- -- -- -- --

_Merrill’s eyes were wide, red-rimmed and teary. Her lower lip quivered and before Fenris could react she was there. He tensed as her arms wrapped around his waist and moved to stroke his back. Irritation flickered on his face, but fell away just as quick. He was too tired. Too numb to care. And she was so warm, so painfully warm. Slowly, hesitantly, he wrapped his own arms around her tiny frame, buried his face in her dark hair and, for the first time since his drunken night on the beach with Isabella, he cried._

_Some other, number, part of him was awed at the oddity of it. Not long ago he wouldn’t have deigned even touch her, his disgust at her choices too prevalent to allow even this little moment of intimacy. And now … Now he was in her home, openly sobbing as Anders, smuggled into the city under cover of darkness, hung back on the far wall, sympathetic but distant._

_“Perhaps,” Anders began once the sniffling had all but died down, “it is too soon. Justice for Hawke can wait until your head is clearer, Fenris.”_

_“No,” Fenris’ voice was muffled, but he didn’t have the energy to move his face away from the tangle of Merrill’s hair. “No.” It was all he could manage with the heavy lump in his throat and the buzz in his head._

_“Very well.”_

\-- -- -- -- -- 

Voices filter in after a while, faded and distant but distinct nonetheless. One, in particular, is hatefully familiar. Fenris pushes through the drag in his limbs and stands, unsteady and swaying. Chest heaving, breath heavy and panting. It feels like fire on his skin where the lyrium glows brighter and brighter with his fury. His head buzzes, his thoughts sluggish and struggling through the sludge of emotion. All he can focus on is that voice. That voice. 

He takes one step forward and nearly tips over sideways. Bracing himself on the wall, he pushes on and draws his broadsword. It feels heavier in his hands than it used to. A burden. Almost as if the weapon itself were reluctant to act. It doesn’t matter. 

Nothing matters. Not without him. 

He can taste Hawke’s disapproval. Beneath the bile and anger, he can taste Hawke. Smoky and sweet, with an electric tang of magic that seems to spur the lyrium on in Fenris’ skin into action, but not unpleasantly. Even scowling, a raging tempest of fury in his eyes, the taste of him doesn’t change. 

Didn’t. 

Won’t. Never again.

Fenris curls his lip and snarls. The voices stop and he hears the distinct sound of weapons being drawn. Magic crackles in the air. Turning the corner, past the threshold into the main hall, he comes face to face with them, weapons aimed at him. Prepared for a fight. All but one, the shortest among them who curses and, eyes wide, lowers his crossbow. He takes a step forward, separating himself from safety — a mistake Fenris is too eager to rectify until the dwarf’s voice, strangled, calls out.

“Fenris?” Varric looks worn and gaunt compared to the image Fenris has harbored of their ragtag Kirkwall group. He’s lost weight and the bags under his eyes, black and puffy smudges, have grown. He has new scars and his hair has begun to more noticeably gray and dull. “Fenris, what are you—” He begins, but Fenris doesn’t give him the chance to finish before he charges.

He’s slow and unsteady, too tired and worn to put up a proper fight, but not so bad that he goes down when the Seeker herself sidesteps Varric to intercept. Their blades clash with an audible clang and grind together before she shoves his to the side. He stumbles but manages to pivot on one foot back into position, both hands gripping the hilt so hard that his knuckles turn white. 

Varric tries to interject, barking at Cassandra and him to stop, but is ignored as someone else breaks away from the group — a bald elf with a staff that glows green, crackling with the Fade’s magic. Fenris bristles and pushes back, away from Cassandra to dodge the elf’s spell. He roars and rushes the elf, jumping up to slice at him from above only to have another broadsword user, some scarred and hulking Qunari, step in front and block the attack. 

The lyrium on his skin sings in time with every clash of steel, searing his flesh as the mage grows accustomed to Fenris’ footwork and improves his aim. He’s so preoccupied with the Seeker, Qunari, and mage that he doesn’t notice the lone rogue sneaking up behind him. He feels the rogue before he sees them, a whisper of wind on the back of his neck. Fenris tries to turn too late as the Inquisitor strikes the back of his head with the butt of a dagger’s handle. 

Fenris drops heavily to the ground at the same time he hears the Seeker’s order to restrain him. As his vision bleeds black, however, a boy wearing a large hat crouches in front of him, head tilted as though he were listening to something. His brows pinch together, a mixture of pity and concern, as he lays a hand on Fenris’ arm. 

Warm, rough with callouses but gentle. Fenris falls into the darkness pretending one last time that the hand is Hawke’s.


End file.
